


as subject to time's love

by hihoplastic



Series: The Worst Witch Tumblr Prompts [10]
Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, this is a cheese factory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 21:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13152819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: She turns, almost disbelieving as her eyes land on a small, black figurine of a cat, sitting on a small shelf above where Hecate keeps the towels.or, Five things Hecate held onto that reminded her of Pippa, and one thing she gave back.





	as subject to time's love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MatildaSwan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/gifts).



> \- Thank you so so much to Rachael for listening to me whine about this and helping me plot and also for coming up with the best line in the ENTIRE FIC. You know what it is. ♥  
> \- Thank you also to @matildaswan on tumblr for the prompt, "Hecate + the mementos she kept from/that reminded her of Pippa during their time apart/she's been given since they reconnected." I hope you like it!  
> \- Title from Shakespeare's Sonnet 124.

**_i._ **

The first time she’s in Hecate’s room, she’s too distracted to notice anything. Hecate’s skin is cold and smooth under her hands, reminds her of marble, and she has the overwhelming urge to warm her up, and endeavors to do just that.  With her fingers and lips and tongue, she spends the night learning Hecate in a way she hadn’t before, delights in all the new things she discovers - the birthmark on the inside of her left thigh, the way her toes curl when Pippa drags her fingernails over her ribs, the little whine she gives when Pippa nips at her neck.  Hecate’s hands aren’t as confident, but they’re gentle, almost unbearably reverent as she touches Pippa, and when they're both breathless and flushed she holds her close, nails whispering up and down her spine until Pippa falls asleep.

It isn’t until the morning that she takes stock of her surroundings. Hecate’s room is functional, but warm - there’s a fireplace in the corner, a few pieces of art on the walls, a dark leather sofa, an old record player. There’s a desk with a neat stack of papers on it, a small coffee table, a black trunk with a gold and red bowl on top that she keeps her keys in. Everything is neat and orderly and has its place. It’s very her, very subdued but classic, but it also makes Pippa’s heart hurt, just a little, at the lack of frivolity.  There’s no whimsy, no knick knacks just because, little to no color.

The ensuite is just as reserved as the bed and living area. Pippa splashes some water on her face, and after drying it with a hand towel, smiles at her reflection.  She looks, well, thoroughly shagged, and she can’t complain.  It’s a giddy feeling that settles in her chest, and she wonders if Hecate still hates mornings.  If she’d like them more if she were woken up a bit more...creatively. She moves to replace the towel, to return to the bed, when something in the mirror’s reflection catches her eye.

She turns, almost disbelieving as her eyes land on a small, black figurine of a cat, sitting on a small shelf above where Hecate keeps the towels.

She remembers giving it to Hecate, remembers the confusion on her face, the way she’d asked, “What does it do?” Pippa had only laughed.  “It doesn’t _do_ anything, Hiccup, it’s just cute! And it looks just like Morgana! See the foot?” She’d pointed at single white mitten of fur on the figurine, exactly the same as Hecate’s familiar.

Hecate hadn’t known what to do, and at the time, Pippa thought she hadn’t liked it. Had brushed off Hecate’s lack of enthusiasm, even though it had hurt. It had hurt so much, then, to think her gift wasn’t wanted, and it hurts almost as much now to know it was treasured. From its place on the shelf, its reflection in the mirror, just above her head, Pippa knows Hecate, a bit taller, sees it everyday. Chooses to see it every day.

When she slips back into bed, she can't help wrapping her arms tightly around Hecate, drawing her close, peppering kisses along her neck and shoulder. Hecate grumbles—still not a morning person, then—and Pippa laughs at the string of nearly unintelligible curses.

“Morning, sunshine,” Pippa teases, and Hecate glowers, but it's mitigated by her hand, soft and cool against Pippa’s shoulder as she turns into her.

She’s stunning, hair wild around her head, expression softening as she gets her bearings, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Pippa can't resist a moment longer, and kisses her, rolling them so she’s on top, Hecate pinned beneath her. Hecate makes a startled noise that just makes Pippa want to kiss her more, so she does, and Hecate hums, relaxing into her. Pippa kisses her until she’s breathless, pours every ounce of love and admiration and care into it that she can.

When she pulls back, Hecate's eyes are closed, her breathing heavy, lips swollen and cheeks flushed.

“What—” she starts, her voice scratchy, “What was that for?”

Pippa smiles. “No reason,” she says, and kisses her again.

  


**_ii._ **

Hecate hasn’t reached the point where she’s comfortable with public displays of affection, but inviting Pippa to the annual Yule staff party seems an enormous step in the right direction, and Pippa couldn’t have turned her down even if she’d wanted to. The look on her face - equal parts hopeful and anxious - combined with the awkward delivery of her request made Pippa’s heart melt, and she quickly made arrangements to spend a few days after the term ended at Cackle's.

The great hall is decorated with tinsel and flowers and a long table full of hors-d'oeuvres and alcoholic beverages. Miss Tapioca may be a terrible cook, Pippa decides, but she sure knows how to make a mean spiked punch.

Across the room, Hecate is talking to Miss Bat and Mr. Rowan Webb, her expression - while not joyful - relaxed, and every so often her lips quirk in a smile.

There’s a fire going, carols playing over the speakers, the low hum of chatter and laughter making the hall feel bright and warm. In the corner is a baby grand piano, and Pippa wonders who on staff plays.

She doesn't have to wonder long, as Ada soon appears at her side with a smile and a large glass of punch.

“I put it there every year,” she says, following Pippa’s gaze. “I keep hoping to entice Hecate into playing, but so far it’s been a fruitless attempt.”

Pippa tries to bury her shock, but it must be written across her face because Ada gives her a sympathetic smile.

“I didn’t realize she still played,” Pippa says, staring into her glass. “She always hated it so, I thought she’d have given it up after she graduated.”

Ada hums and nods. “That old Steinway lives in the basement here most of the year. She lets me listen in sometimes, but she's never been keen on performing.”

Pippa thinks of awkward class presentations and missed broomstick displays and nods, but she wonders what else she doesn't know, what she’s missed, in all that time apart.  She wonders, if maybe she’d approached Hecate years earlier, would the end result have been the same? Would they still be here, just sooner? Or would it all change?

“You know,” Ada murmurs, interrupting her thoughts, “She’d probably play if you asked.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I think you underestimate her stubbornness.”

“And I think you underestimate yourself, Miss Pentangle,” Ada says, and winks, and wanders away, leaving Pippa to mull over her words.

-

“No,” Hecate says, before Pippa has even opened her mouth.

“Sorry?”

“You were going to ask me to play.”

“I was not.”

“You were talking to Ada.”

“Yes, we were discussing changes in the curriculum for—” Hecate arches an eyebrow, and Pippa huffs. “Fine. You're right.”

Hecate gives her a smug look that really shouldn't be so attractive.

“Why not?” she says, batting her eyelashes just a little.

Hecate shrugs, immune. “It’s private.”

“I understand,” she says, and then, cautiously, “It’s such a shame, though. I've never heard you play.” She pouts as much as dignity will allow her. “Surely it would be better than this Christmas nonsense?”

“Perhaps I'm terrible.”

Pippa snorts. “You've never been terrible at a thing in your life.”

Hecate flushes slightly and takes a sip of her punch. “Bowling.”

Pippa grins. “Now that I have to see.”

Hecate mutters something that might be, “Over your dead body,” but Pippa lets it go, too cheered by the easy banter.

“Miss Cackle says you're wonderful.”

“Ada, for all her strengths, is remarkably tone-deaf.”

“Doesn't mean she’s wrong,” Pippa says, looking up at Hecate with her best pleading eyes.

Hecate glares at her for a moment, but it doesn't last—her expression softens, her fingers moving against her glass like she wants to reach out and touch, and Pippa wishes she would. Wishes she’d let go of just some of her propriety.

But she understands, knows the way it’s ingrained in Hecate’s very psyche, and instead turns slightly, so their arms brush.

“Fine,” Hecate says, and Pippa’s so startled she almost doesn’t understand, until Hecate eyes her warily and says, “No requests.”

Pippa quickly recovers and beams at her, squeezing her arm in lieu of the kiss she wants to press to her cheek. “Deal.”

Hecate purses her lips, clearly not entranced by the idea, but she hands Pippa her drink and sits stiffly down at the piano, eying the keys with disdain. Pippa holds back a laugh at the sight and looks away, down at Hecate’s fingers, long and delicate, hovering without pressing as she decides what to play. It doesn’t surprise her when Hecate chooses a classical piece, but the ease with which she plays, even as her spine remains stiff and straight, does.

She doesn’t sway into it like some, gives no indication that she’s truly feeling what she’s playing. Pippa wonders how much of that was forced out of her in favor of technicality and precision. She wonders if Hecate ever loved it, or if it’s always been something she felt forced to do.

Guilt racks up her spine as she thinks of herself as one of those people, and she thinks about telling her nevermind, that she doesn't have to, when Ada appears at her shoulder.  “Give her a minute,” Ada says wisely. Pippa nods, still unsure, and waits, fingers tight around her glass.

The music overhead has stopped, the chatter dimmed. But Hecate, normally astute, doesn't seem to notice. It takes a few minutes, but soon her eyes drift shut, her shoulders relax, and she leans just slightly forward, as if into the music.

The hush in the room allows the notes to echo softly, and it's beautiful. Everything about the moment, the atmosphere, everyone listening intently, as if they know they're being given a rare gift.

It doesn't last forever—at the end of the third piece, Dimity gives a well-meaning whoop and applause that snaps Hecate out of her concentration. Her shoulders tense and she quickly stands, pushing the bench back under the piano, and Pippa resists the urge to hug her tight.

“That was lovely, Hecate,” Ada says warmly, squeezing Hecate’s arm. “A new tradition, I hope.”

Hecate softens, and nods her head. “Perhaps.”

Ada smiles, as if she knows it means yes.

-

Pippa, Hecate, and Ada are the last ones there, and Pippa excuses herself to give them a chance to talk. She loves how close they are, loves that Hecate has finally found a place she fits in, where she’s so clearly loved. She wonders idly if Hecate even knows how important she is to the people around her, or if she can't see it, still imagines she's the outcast everywhere she goes.

Pippa thinks, perhaps, if Hecate is willing to let her walls down enough to share something of herself with them, she must have some idea. Must feel safe.

She wanders the halls for a bit, studying pictures on the walls and trophies in the cabinets, before making her way back to the hall.

When she returns, it’s to soft music echoing through the halls, and she finds Ada gone and Hecate back at the piano. She looks more comfortable than she had previously, less concentrated on perfect notes and moreso on simply enjoying the moment, and Pippa smiles.

She perches on the bench next to Hecate, careful not to bump her arm, and closes her eyes, enjoying the closeness, the music, the warmth of Hecate’s thigh against her own.

She gasps when Hecate switches from what she thinks might be Chopin to a decidedly simpler, more familiar song.

“Is that—” Hecate smiles softly, ducking her head, and Pippa’s jaw falls open. It’s been years since she’s heard the song, always avoided it after they stopped speaking, but it’s clear Hecate hadn’t. Hecate remembers every note. Had learned it. It isn’t unique, perhaps - she knows countless pieces by heart - but that she would play it, would admit to remembering it well enough to play it perfectly, means more to Pippa than she can put into words.

She’d been obsessed with it—though, that's not quite right. She'd been obsessed with how much Hecate seemed to _despise_ it, and therefore played it over and over, sung it loudly, often, and off key, much to Hecate’s dismay. She’d always complained, sneering at the modern technology of Pippa’s walkman and small boombox.

But Pippa had been undeterred - even dragged Hecate to the cinema to see the film, remembers crying into her popcorn while Hecate sat, somehow enthralled and unimpressed at the same time.

“It’s romantic!” Pippa had defended as they walked back to the dorms, while Hecate rolled her eyes and pointed out the inconsistencies and inaccuracies; and yet there was awe in her voice that made no sense until she admitted,

“I’ve never seen a film before.”

Pippa had gasped, unable to fathom it, and Hecate explained that her father was traditional, and didn’t believe in non-magical technology. They had no TV, no radio, just a victrola that he would play old, traditional songs on. “He doesn’t even like Maglets,” Hecate had said, then ducked her head.  “He’d be furious if he knew.”

Pippa had stared, not sure what to say or do to wipe the nervous look off Hecate’s face. She’d settled for taking Hecate’s hand between them and squeezing tightly.  “I won’t tell anyone,” she’d promised, and Hecate had smiled, and nodded, and Pippa had nudged her shoulder and given Hecate her best grin. “Besides,” she’d said, “ _Nobody_ puts Hiccup in a corner.”

Hecate had choked, torn between rolling her eyes and the laughter that won out in the end.

“You are ridiculous,” she’d said, but allowed Pippa to loop her arm through Hecate’s, pulling her in tight.

From then on, Pippa had considered it ‘their’ song. Had forced Hecate to dance with her one afternoon when it came on the radio, clinging to Hecate’s hands and moving her arms jerkily.  There was so little frivolity in Hecate’s life, Pippa had done her best to introduce some whenever possible.  

At the time, she’d thought perhaps maybe Hecate had found her _too_ frivolous - that that’s why she stopped speaking to her, why she pulled away.

The song Hecate is still playing says otherwise, and Pippa feels a spike of guilt. While she had been doing her best to distance herself from anything that reminded her of Hecate, it’s clear Hecate had done the opposite.

Sniffing back tears, Pippa shifts closer and presses a kiss to Hecate’s cheek, turning her head to lean against her shoulder.

  


**_iii._ **

She doesn't mean to pry.

She really, honestly doesn't.

She’s looking for a pen, of all things, knows Hecate has to have one somewhere. Hecate, with her pension for writing notes in the margins of her books, who keeps journals of her self-corrected potions lists, _two ears of bat instead of one_ in this, _substitute lavender for foxglove_ in that.

It's one of the things that had first attracted Pippa to Hecate, the thing that intrigued her. Hecate, barely out of her first year of Academy, silently correcting long-established texts.

And she was always right.

It had awed Pippa at the time, and made her a little jealous how easily everything seemed to come to Hecate. How quickly she mastered spells and broomstick riding and potions.

It hadn't taken her long to realize it wasn't ease at all, but a fierce dedication to the Craft. While Pippa was out socializing, or pretending to study with other friends, Hecate had her nose constantly buried in a book.

She remembers, fondly now, their friendly rivalry, always comparing test scores. If she’s honest, she was the one who didn't study much, who was content trailing a few percentage points behind Hecate. She’d even considered doing it on purpose a few times, flubbing an answer or two, just to see the tiny smile and wide flush on Hecate’s face when Pippa would sigh extravagantly and pretend to bow to the “superior witch.”

She’d loved that little blush, the way Hecate would duck her head and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She hadn't known why it delighted her so much at the time, but it makes sense now, and Pippa feels her skin warm when she recalls the way Hecate had blushed last night, all over, and for an entirely different reason.

Shaking her head with a smile, Pippa continues her search, peeking in drawers, rolling her eyes at the red scrawls covering Hecate's students’ papers.

She finds a pen, eventually, but it isn't one she’d dare to use. She recognizes it instantly, the one Hecate had kept close at hand, never without, never shared. It had been a gift from her mother, she knows—a rare, secret birthday present alongside the always practical one her father insisted on. Though, she’d said with a smile, one year, while her father was out of town, she and her mother had made an entire cake from scratch, and she was allowed to blow out the candles.

Pippa’s heart had skipped then, as it does now, staring at the ordinary black pen.

She moves to close the drawer, to keep looking, when a flash of something sparkly catches her eye.

Pulling out the drawer further, Pippa can only stare. Next to the pen, hidden toward the back, apparently, is a single hair clip.

 _Her_ hair clip.

It’s small and gold, a bit gaudy if Pippa’s honest, but she’d loved them, the set of two she’d gotten for some reason or another. They hadn't been particularly special, but she’d worn them nearly every day, hair pinned back on both sides, spending precious minutes in the morning making sure they were exactly even.

She thought she’d lost one, had abandoned the other to her childhood bedroom, annoyed but not terribly heartbroken. Her father had quickly replaced them, she remembers, and she hadn't given it much thought since.

But Hecate clearly had.

Had kept it all these years, secreted away, sharing space with an item she holds so dear, and Pippa feels her eyes well up without her permission. That something so simple, so unassuming could mean so much—that something that reminded Hecate of _her_ could mean so much, fills her with joy and sorrow, for all the wasted years between them.

She doesn't blame Hecate, not anymore, but she wonders what would have happened, if Hecate hadn't pushed her away. If they'd stayed friends, gone to teaching college together like they'd planned, stayed in touch like she’d planned. She wonders if she would have realized sooner, the depth of her feelings for Hecate. If she would have acted on them.

If she could have spared Hecate even a few, lonely years.

Shaking her head, she closes the drawer, and resumes her search for something suitable.

She’s here now—they're here now—and that's what matters.  And if she hugs Hecate a bit too tightly when she returns, or kisses her a bit more fiercely, Pippa decides she deserves it.

They both do.

  
  
_**iv.**_

The greenhouse at Cackle's is the most organized, efficiently designed Pippa has ever seen. At least, it is until Mildred Hubble’s through with it. Pippa can't keep her jaw closed at the sight, pots broken and dirt everywhere, flowers and plants strewn about, mixed together, ripped up and trodden on.

There was a perfectly good explanation, according to Miss Cackle, but Hecate hadn't seen it that way.  She’d been “quite angry,” Miss Cackle said when Hecate failed to meet Pippa at the gate like they'd planned, and Pippa knew what that translated to.

Dinner, she assumes then, is cancelled, and Ada recommended giving Hecate some space. But Pippa has never been good at that, especially not when she knows Hecate is in some sort of distress.

Which is how she finds herself stepping carefully through the debris on the greenhouse floor to reach a still visibly livid Hecate.

“Hiccup?”

Hecate whirls around, eyes narrowed, hand coming up to freeze whomever it is in place. She stills when she sees Pippa, arm dropping, but her posture remains stiff.

“Pippa.”

“Miss Cackle told me I’d find you here.  What on earth happened?”

“Mildred Hubble happened,” Hecate snaps, turning around to the nearest row of planters. “As usual.”

Deciding it’s not the right time to address the deeper root of Hecate’s distaste for Mildred, Pippa merely nods and moves closer, peering over Hecate’s shoulder as she shoves dirt back into a planter.

Her movements are rough and quick, and it makes Pippa wince, the violent motions, the tension radiating from Hecate.

She doesn't know what to say, how to not make the situation worse, so she does the only thing she can—she steps alongside Hecate, rolls up her sleeves, and gets to work.

Hecate starts, looking over at her with confusion and a bit of distrust that makes Pippa swallow.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping,” Pippa says, reaching for a knocked over jar of seeds.

They work in silence, first rescuing the plants and flowers that can be saved or replanted. Pippa follows Hecate’s directions on how to arrange them without complaint, ignoring the bite in her tone. It isn’t directed at her, Pippa knows, and if it helps Hecate calm down she’s willing to endure a bit of snappishness.

Hecate mutters under her breath every so often, but eventually her movements start to soften and smooth.  She begins using magic, now that she’s calmed down, waving her hand gently to lift up pots or restore dirt or replant flowers.  Pippa follows her lead, helping to put the once meticulous greenhouse back into a semblance of order.

As they work, Pippa notes the plants and flowers, recognizes some and asks Hecate about others. They're all useful, popular or rare ingredients in potions, some beautiful, some dangerous. Explaining their properties seems to calm Hecate, so Pippa lets her, asks questions even when she knows the answers.

Hecate has always been masterful with potions, but it's lovely to see her passion—how much she truly cares for the Craft. Pippa wishes she would show her enthusiasm more often, especially to her students; but excitement has always been a private thing for Hecate, something her father considered undignified, and Pippa doesn't press.

Instead, she sweeps the floor with a wave of her hand, lifting the still salvageable flowers up onto the table. There are snapdragons and vervains and kansui root, spearmint, dove’s foot, and magnolia. Crushed almost beyond recognition, Pippa spies a stargazer among the pile, and smiles. They've always been her favorite, something about the bright shade of pink, the shape, even the name always made her giddy for some reason.

They aren't terribly useful, so witches don't often keep them. In fact, she can't remember a single potion that requires stargazers.

“What do you use these for?” she asks, plucking the flower from the debris and holding it up for inspection.

Hecate stills when she sees what Pippa’s holding. “Nothing,” she says, turning back to her work. “They're useless.”

Pippa frowns. “Then why have them?”

Hecate purses her lips and shoves a bit too harshly at a mandrake root. “They're your favorite, aren't they?”

“Yes,” Pippa says. “I love them. But that doesn't explain why—”

She stops, eyes widening as she looks from the crushed flower in her hand to Hecate’s tense frame. She can only see part of her face, but she looks caught off guard, nervous, almost, and Pippa closes the distance between them.

“Are you growing these for me?”

Hecate’s lips twitch. “I've always grown them,” she admits.

 _Always_.

Even when they were apart.

Pippa tries to speak, but the words get stuck in her throat. Hecate doesn't notice, continuing with a shrug,

“It doesn't matter. They're ruined.”

She has to admit Mildred had, somewhat spectacularly, decimated the small section of stargazers. But Pippa shakes her head, holding the flower to her chest.

“I love them anyway,” she murmurs, thinks, _I love you,_ but doesn't say.

Not yet.

  


**_v._ **

She finds the letter in Hecate’s coat pocket.

They're walking the grounds at Cackle's, enjoying the cold winter solitude, children gone for the holidays. It's peaceful and beautiful, a dusting of snow that remains making the castle look ethereal and bright in the sun.

If only she weren't so damnably cold, Pippa thinks, it would be perfect. She shudders, pulling her sweater tighter around her frame, and leans into Hecate's warmth.

Before Pippa can utter a protest, Hecate slips out of her coat and drapes it over Pippa’s shoulders, pausing to pull the lapels around her neck. It's a bit small, but it's soft and warm and it smells like Hecate, and Pippa can't help but bury her nose in the collar.

“But now you’ll be cold,” she says, a token protest even as she burrows into it.

Hecate shakes her head. “I'm fine. I'm used to it.”

Pippa wants to argue, but Hecate’s soft smile deters her, and instead she loops her arm through Hecate’s, pulling her close, and buries her hands in the pockets of the coat.

Her fingers brush paper, and she pauses, stopping to pull a folded envelope out.

“What's this?”

Hecate freezes, shoulders tensing, and Pippa doesn't understand until she sees her name, in her own handwriting, scrawled across the front.

_To Pippa, age 25_

_From Pippa, age 15_

Her heart lurches.

It had been her idea, back then, to write letters to their older selves, with all their hopes and dreams for the future. Hecate had found it pointless, but agreed because it made Pippa happy, and she remembers the two of them, cross-legged on Pippa’s bed, penning their missives.

For all her complaining, Hecate had taken it seriously, taken far longer to finish her letter than Pippa, and when they were done and the envelopes sealed, they switched, promising to return the letters to one another ten years later.

They hadn't.

Hecate wasn't speaking to her by that point, and Pippa feels a wave of guilt wash over her, to the point of breathlessness.

“You kept it?”

Her voice shakes slightly as she looks up at Hecate, who stands rigidly next to her, eyes staring straight ahead, fingers clenched at her sides.

“I—” She starts, swallows, and says more calmly, “I planned to give it to you at the conference in Reykjavik.”

“Why didn't you?”

Hecate purses her lips. “You weren't keen on speaking to me then.”

Pippa remembers that conference, looks back now and sees the way Hecate had tried, haltingly, to approach her. The way she’d dismissed her, the sharp words between them. At the time she’d thought Hecate was just being callous, pretending they were nothing more than distant colleagues.

Pippa stares down at the letter, folded and creased but still sealed.

She’d kept her promise, held onto it all these years, waiting, while Pippa…

Pippa had destroyed hers.

On her twenty-fifth birthday, she found the letter and burned it, let the flames take some of her hurt and anger and betrayal. It had been cathartic, then, but she wishes now she hadn't, wishes desperately that she’d held onto that tangible piece of hope the way Hecate had, and she looks away in shame.

“I don't have yours,” she admits softly.

Hecate nods stiffly. “That's fine.”

“Hecate—”

“I never expected you to keep it, Pippa,” she says, almost gently, honestly and without blame. “I was the one who left.”

Pippa feels her eyes burn. “I should have come after you.”

Hecate lays a hand on her arm. “I'm not sure it would have helped. I was—convinced.”

Convinced she was right, that she was doing the right thing, that Pippa would be better off without her.

She wants to tell her she was so wrong, that Hecate left a hole when she left that nothing and no one filled, not until they found each other again.

But Hecate already looks so guilt-ridden, and Pippa knows it wouldn't help, at least not now. Now, it would only make Hecate feel worse, and that's the last thing Pippa wants.

“We’re here now,” Pippa says, somewhat shakily, and Hecate nods.

“We are.”

It's soft but firm, and Pippa smiles at Hecate’s resolve, her confidence. It's been long enough that she doesn't look like she's waiting anymore, waiting for Pippa to leave, or decide she’s better off with someone else. Hecate seems secure in their relationship, and the show of trust means everything to Pippa.

Arching up on her toes, she presses a kiss to Hecate’s cold cheek, remembering for the first time how frigid it is outside.

“Should we go in?”

Hecate nods, and they loop back around the grounds to one of the back entrances, near Hecate’s room. Once they're inside and warm, a fire going and mugs of tea on the table, Pippa fiddles with the envelope, debating.

She doesn't remember what's in it, which she supposes was the point; but it's been even longer than they intended, and she’s nervous, almost, to see if she lived up to her 15 year-old self’s expectations.

Hecate must notice her indecision, but of course, comes to the wrong conclusion. “Would you like me to leave you alone so you can open it?”

Pippa shakes her head. “It's not that. It's just…what if I didn't do all the things I thought I would have by now?”

Hecate nods, and sits gingerly on the edge of the sofa next to her.

“Are you happy with your life?”

Pippa blinks. “What? Of course, I—”

Hecate holds up a hand, a smile twitching at her lips. “I merely meant, if you're happy where you are, then what does it matter what your past self wanted? People change. Perhaps your priorities changed as well.”

Pippa smiles at the very logical, very _Hecate_ take on things, and nods.

“I suppose you're right.” She flips the envelope over and tucks a nail under the flap. Hecate moves to rise, and Pippa grasps her arm, looking up at her hopefully. “Stay?”

Hecate sits, and Pippa breathes a sigh, part relief, part apprehension as she opens the envelope and unfolds the single piece of parchment.

“Goodness, my handwriting was ghastly,” she murmurs, eyes roaming over the page.

Hecate doesn't disagree, and Pippa rolls her eyes before settling, finally, on the words.

“ _Dear Pippa,_

_I hope this letter finds you well! I can't believe you're 25 now. You're so old!”_

Hecate snorts, and Pippa nudges her shoulder. “Quiet, you.”

_“Hiccup and I decided to write these letters to ourselves, to see where we are in 10 years. Well, I decided, and Hiccup has complained about it nonstop. She says it’s silly, but I think it's a great idea. How often do you get to talk to your past self!”_

She can practically feel Hecate’s humor beside her, and grumbles, “Like yours was any better.”

Then she remembers, they'll never know what Hecate’s said, and her mood darkens. Hecate places a reassuring hand on her knee, says nothing, but nods for her to continue, so she does.

Most of the letter describes her life as it was then - teachers she loved and hated, her friends—she feels Hecate stiffen at the mention of a few names—her family, how annoying her brothers are. What she wanted for her birthday. Silly, simple things that make her laugh softly at her own whimsy.

Toward the end of the letter is a list, and she hesitates, unsure if she should read it aloud. But Hecate is steady next to her, a calming presence, and she takes a deep breath.

“ _Now, you'd better have done all these things by now - 10 years is plenty of time! - or I’ll be very cross._

  1. __Witching history tour of Europe with Hiccup__
  2. _See the Northern Lights (w/Hiccup, duh)_
  3. _Dance on stage in front of people (get Hiccup to do it with you! It will be hilarious!)_
  4. _Go to teaching college with Hiccup_
  5. _Get a boyfriend_
  6. _Get Hiccup a boyfriend—”_



Hecate actually laughs at that, and Pippa blushes. “What? I was 15, I didn't know! Did you?”

Hecate stills, eyes meeting Pippa’s with a sort of fond wistfulness that makes her breath catch. “Yes,” she says simply, and Pippa ducks her head, ashamed, until Hecate teases, “But then, some of us have always been quicker than others.”

Pippa rolls her eyes and pointedly ignores her.

“7. _Find a teaching position at a good academy (close to Hiccup!)_

  1. _Win a broomstick competition_
  2. _Volunteer in South Africa_
  3. _Be happy.”_



She pauses, taking a moment to look over the hopeful, innocent words of her younger self before reading the last of the letter.  She feels nostalgic, and a bit embarrassed at her own enthusiasm and naivety. But she’s also proud, accomplished that she’s done so many of the things on her list, that she’s made it so far, even if it is 20 years after she was supposed to have read it.  And the things she hasn’t done, well - there’s time yet, or no need.  She’s happy.

Pippa looks to Hecate to tell her so, to tell her that she’s part of that happiness, but Hecate is staring at her like she’s never seen her before, not properly, like a veil has been lifted, and Pippa doesn’t understand until she says, so quietly, “You really wanted to do all those things with me?”

Pippa nods, and grips her hand tightly. “I did.”

Hecate swallows.  “I—I didn’t know.”

Pippa brushes her thumb over Hecate’s knuckles and shakes her head.  She wants to say it was her own fault, that Hecate never realize, but she’s tried that before, and it ends in an argument, or at least one of Hecate’s silent treatments and she doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to go 20 rounds with Hecate over her guilt, so instead she moves closer, and holds Hecate’s hand tight.

“We could still do them,” she offers, trying to keep the trepidation out of her voice.  “I hear Spain’s nice this time of year. We could go to Trasmoz, or maybe the coast, just to relax a bit before the school year starts.”

“I would like that,” Hecate says softly, and it's too much, too heavy and too real for Pippa to handle, Hecate looking at her like she sees forever, and Pippa looking back and seeing the same.

She ducks her head, overwhelmed, and takes a shaky breath before lightening the mood with a teasing, “Any excuse to get you in a bikini.”

Hecate flushes bright red to the tops of her ears. “ _Honestly,_ Pippa.”

Pippa grins, and kisses the scowl off Hecate’s lips.

“Honestly.”

  


**_+i._ **

She isn't quite sure what she’s doing at Cackle’s in the middle of the day, a school day no less, but Hecate had requested she come and she’s never been good at denying Hecate anything.

She lands near the castle, waves away her broom and coat to Hecate’s room, and makes her way over to the small gathering near the trees.

She spies Hecate immediately, taller than the rest, and rolls her eyes as soon as she hears her voice, scolding the students for some thing or another.

“Hecate?”

Hecate turns, eyes softening at the sight of her, and ducks her head in greeting.

“Well met, Miss Pentangle.”

Pippa resists the urge to snort at the formalities, but touches the back of her hand to her forehead as well. “Well met, Hecate.”

The girls have all gathered around her, broomsticks in hand, cats milling about. She doesn't recognize anyone aside from Dimity, but she’d only met the first years on her official visit, and these girls are older by a few years at least.

They all greet her and she bows back and Hecate just keeps staring at her, fingers dancing against her thigh like she wants to touch but doesn't.

Pippa smiles warmly, hoping Hecate can read the desire reflected back.

Dimity gathers the girls around, and Hecate inclines her head for Pippa to follow her a ways away from the group.

“Not that I'm not delighted to see you, of course, but what am I doing here?” Hecate’s silent for too long, and Pippa stops, touching her shoulder briefly. “Is everything alright, Hiccup? You look—”

“Everything’s fine,” she assures, her eyes skidding over Pippa a few times before settling. “It's nothing.”

“It’s something,” Pippa says gently. “I mean, I assume you haven't called me out here for a mid-week rendezvous,” she teases, delighting in the flush that creeps up Hecate’s neck. “Not that I would be opposed, of course.”

 _"Pippa._ There are children around.”

“Who cannot hear us nor are they paying attention to begin with. So talk to me, Hiccup. What's going on?”

“It’s—” She starts and stops a few times, hands flexing at her sides, jaw clenching and unclenching. “The third years are choosing routines for the spring tournament,” she says slowly, eyes on Pippa’s face, as if to gauge her reaction.  

Pippa frowns and nods.  “My third years are doing the same.”

When Hecate doesn’t say anything else, Pippa turns them slightly away from the group, blocking their view so she can take Hecate’s hand.

“Are you sure everything’s alright?”

Hecate nods, the movement harsh, a contrast to how softly her hand rests in Pippa’s.  “I thought, if you have time, of course, that we might…” The pause is so long, Pippa wonders if she’ll finish. “...demonstrate. Some of the girls have never been to an event, and have never seen a routine performed correctly…”

She continues to ramble, but Pippa can’t quite hear her. Her voice sounds muted, far away, and her throat goes dry. “The doubles display?”

She can tell by the way Hecate’s lips twitch that she’s interrupted her, but she can’t bring herself to apologize.  Can’t do much of anything except stare.

Hecate stares back for a beat, then blinks. Her hand drops from Pippa’s and she steps away, chin lifted even as her eyes are bright.

“Never mind. I’ve wasted your time, my apologies.”

“Hecate—”

“I need to return to the students.”

“Hiccup, stop.”

Hecate stills but her arms are straight, her body turned away from Pippa, eyes fixated on a point in the distance. Carefully, Pippa steps in front of her, blocking anyone from seeing what she’s doing, and curls her fingers lightly around Hecate’s necklace.

“You remember it?” Pippa asks.

This close, she can see the way Hecate’s eyes flicker, the jump in her jaw, the hitch in her breathing.  When she looks down at Pippa her eyes are narrowed, but her voice is soft, almost sweet: “Don’t you?”

She does, remembers every part of it—they’d practiced nearly daily for months, choreographing the routine themselves. She just never expected Hecate to cling so tightly to something she herself had abandoned.

It’s an offering, a gift she doesn't quite know what she's done to deserve. She thinks about all the years between them, all the misery, all the anger, the way it sat in her chest.  The way it never had in Hecate’s.  Little mementos and moments and pieces of their past that Pippa had done her best to forget, Hecate had clung to, had cherished. She thinks of the betrayal she felt, the loneliness, and she feels the last of it melt away as Hecate’s hand brushes hers between them, a question.

Before she’s even registered her own motion, Pippa throws her arms around Hecate’s neck and pulls her close, burying her face in Hecate’s shoulder. Hecate stiffens, muttering under her breath something about an “audience” but Pippa doesn’t care, can’t bring herself to care about anything other than trying not to cry.

She feels Hecate’s hands, tentative on her back, her voice barely above a whisper. “Pipsqueak?”

“Sorry,” she manages, sniffling, and when she finally pulls away, Hecate looks alarmed. “I'm fine,” she says, trying to reassure her, but Hecate doesn’t react, and Pippa barely resists the urge to kiss her right there, in front of everyone.

“That sounds wonderful,” she says instead, squeezing Hecate’s hands, trying to erase the near-fearful expression from Hecate’s face when she asks,

“Does it?”

Pippa nods. “You caught me off guard, that’s all,” she says honestly, brushing her thumb over Hecate’s knuckles. “I didn’t think you’d remember something like that, let alone want to revisit it.”

Hecate looks down at their hands for a long moment before meeting Pippa’s gaze. “I wanted to make it up to you,” she says. “I owe you—”

Pippa presses a finger to Hecate’s lips.  “Nothing, Hiccup. You _owe_ me nothing,” she says firmly, then, softer, “But I will love and cherish anything you _want_ to give. Okay?”

Hecate looks like she wants to argue, but Pippa keeps her finger over her lips and gives her a stern glare. Hecate rolls her eyes, but relents, shoulders dropping slightly. “All right.”

“Good,” Pippa says, letting her hand fall away. She misses Hecate’s warmth immediately, and curls her fingers against her thigh. “Shall we?”

Hecate hesitates, eyes flickering to the group of students who are now watching them avidly, before she nods, and summons their brooms, cloaks, and hats.  Hecate quickly informs the students about the competition, the roles, the types of routines.

“Miss Pentangle and I will be demonstrating a doubles display,” she says, and Pippa’s certain she’s the only one who notices the slight tremor in Hecate’s voice.

“Let’s show them how it’s done.”

The girls applaud as they face one another, and for a moment, the years fade away.  Pippa sees Hecate as she was when they were young, without the lines around her eyes, hair pulled back from her face but down, moving with the wind. She sees her best friend staring back at her, smiling; the same small, soft smile Hecate is wearing now, the same love in her eyes, so obvious now that Pippa wonders how she could have missed it.

The same love she finds every day, in gifts and lost letters and long-remembered songs. In flowers and late night kisses and mementos. Pippa smiles widely, and when she takes to the sky, knows without looking that Hecate is beside her, where she’s meant to be.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
****


End file.
